summer lovin'
by Anastasia-G
Summary: A collection of (mostly) unconnected and (loosely) summer-themed Klonnie drabbles. (Previously published on Tumblr; cover image by the amazing Nisha aka bonneibennett on Tumblr)
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: for those of you that are following "No Soft Lights", don't worry! I will be updating that pretty soon. I've been moving for the past month and haven't had time to write a longer chapter, so these drabbles are a quick, fun way to keep my Klonnie muse on her toes. Some of them are connected - parts of the same universe - but most of them are snapshots of Klaus and Bonnie in various stages and versions of their relationship. Hope y'all are having a lovely summer!_

* * *

 _Afterglow, part I_

* * *

Morning peeks through the curtains, and Klaus is gone.

Bonnie is not surprised, not really. But she feels tiny and adrift in his sprawling king size bed, the bed where she'd given him her virginity the night before.

It all feels like a dream, hazy with midsummer longing, and yet she only has to shift for the faint soreness between her thighs to announce itself. She knows she will find more marks - the thumbprints on her hips, the bites on her leg, a bruise on her left shoulder-blade when they'd slammed into the headboard (she had barely winced at that last, so caught up was she in Klaus' hands and tongue and his …well, his everything) - but they will surely fade by nightfall. After all, his blood is still swimming through her veins.

She touches the arch of her neck where his fangs had been. The tenderness there a sharp reminder of what had transpired. She'd never been drunk from, not like _that_.

The way he had growled, had held her prone by the hair, had drunk and drunk her blood like she was the last thing between him and satiation- heat steals over at the memory.

For the briefest moment, she had thought Klaus wouldn't stop.

(For the briefest second, she had worried she wouldn't stop him either).

Bonnie shivers. The bedclothes smell like them - him and her and mingled odor of lovemaking. She knows they will be replaced with fresh linen by evening - the Mikaelson manner was efficiently staffed - but this is nice. She turns her face into a pillow and inhales the scent of his hair, and her hand finds something smooth. A note, written in the hybrid's characteristic looping hand.

 _Ah, at last she awakens! Help yourself to breakfast, love. I will be back by moonrise. - K_

And a postscript, smudged in haste,

 _P.S: Rest as long as you need, no one will disturb you._

Bonnie doesn't need to be told twice to snuggle back into the lush pillows.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: inspired by the prompt "in the middle of the night, person B has a nightmare about person A and bursts into wakefulness, gasping and frantic, waking A in the process."_

* * *

Klaus had remarked once that she would make a fine vampire, since she already _slept_ like the dead.

As a rule, Bonnie was not easily awoken. Alarms, appointments, at times even hailstorms could not rouse the witch if she was ensconced in a comfortable enough blanket.

And hybrids made very comfortable blankets indeed.

So much so that, when said blanketing warmth is rudely snatched away one night, Bonnie finds herself surprisingly, instantly awake.

The flash of hybrid-gold eyes is all she sees before she is crushed into a solid wall of chest.

"Klaus what-,"

Hands tangle in her hair, roam frantically down her shoulders and spine, finally pulling her into his lap. Bonnie feels cold sweat and harsh breathing. She touches his hair while he buries his nose in her neck.

She does not ask or prod, just tangles her fingers into his curls, trying to soothe whatever horror is pulsing through his mind. His breathing slows at length. Bonnie shifts and cannot contain a wince - his hands have a bruising hold on her - and suddenly she is looking into his eyes, seeing blue slowly chasing out the wild amber. A nightmare, is the only explanation.

Klaus grips her face, tenderness stretched raw over need, and his voice is so quiet Bonnie almost strains to hear it, "You were dead…. I saw you, lying in a pool of your blood-,"

A year ago she had almost died, again, trying to save a city from Heretics. She and Klaus had argued for weeks, a young witch and the most powerful immortal creature alive, debating the terms of life and death and - more unnervingly - love. One of them, all too accustomed to death. The other, refusing to fear it.

"- you looked peaceful."

His eyes are bleak and heavy, like weights tied to her ankle, pulling her down. She is drowning in the realization that what Klaus fears most is this: that she might be better off dead than lying beside a monster.

Bonnie swallows the lump in her throat, and says lightly, pointedly, "If I looked peaceful it's probably because no one woke me up."

His hand slips behind her neck.

"Bonnie..," he says, so softly it tugs at her heart. Only Klaus can make her name sound like it was outside of history, timeless.

"It was just a dream," she touches her forehead to his, "everyone has them. Last week I dreamed that my Calculus professor was Mickey Mouse, it was pretty funny-,"

He is kissing her, as suddenly as he'd seized her in his arms, and with an equal amount of desperate fervor. His stubble scrapes the sensitive flesh of her neck and shoulder, his teeth make blood rise to the surface of her skin. Bonnie can feel what he does not speak: he has not dreamed, not like this, in a long time.

He takes hold of her body and chases the dreams away as fiercely, as ruthlessly as he ever spurned his enemies.

When they lie down again, Bonnie lets him gather her close.

Heat drifts lazily off their skin, and her hand splays over his heart, blanketing.


	3. Chapter 3

_Afterglow_ , part II

* * *

True to his word, Klaus returns by moonrise.

She is in the garden, by the blossoming lavender, resisting the urge to pluck and crush sweet petals between her palms so her skin might drink their fragrance. Night has yet to fall, and the sky is soft and violet with waiting.

She sees him and feels like that sky, melting.

"You should be indoors, love. It's going to rain."

Has she done something wrong? His voice is gruff, his eyes dark.

Bonnie tries to leave, but he stops her before she can brush past him. His hand encircles her wrist while his gaze lingers on her shoulder. The strap of her linen dress fails to conceal the bruise there. Klaus frowns.

"It's nothing," she says quietly, "it doesn't hurt much."

"I tried to warn you," and now his voice is dark too.

He truly had tried to warn her. Rough whispers on her skin warning her about his swiftly vanishing restraint, powerful hybrid hands gripping the bedclothes so they would not bruise her flesh further. Although by then, they were both too far gone. Wild horses could not have torn Bonnie away from the relentless pleasure of his fingers and mouth, from the terrifying exhilaration of seeing Klaus, at last, give in to his desire for her.

She finds a tiny seed of courage, lifts up on her toes like a sapling into the light. When she kisses him he grows still as stone. She persists, hand resting bird-like on his shoulder, her mouth a petal.

Klaus' winds a slow arm around her waist. She leans into his grip and, lets the words slip out before her boldness fails her.

"Last night I…I liked it."

The words hang dewy in the air as she watches the stirring in his eyes. Then, he is kissing her, drawing her insistently and possessively against his hard body. Bonnie entwines her arms around his neck, clings to him, a cloud dissolving slowly but surely. Memories of the night before sweep over her. She had been helpless then, as she is now, to stem her reaction to him, to refrain from crushing her breasts and hips into the firm contours of his frame, to suppress the soft mewls that spill from her lips in between heated kisses when his mouth pays attention to other expanses of her clamoring skin.

 _Take me to bed,_ she wants to say. And that wanting curls into her fingers, so that she is almost clawing his shoulders, the nape of his neck, his chest and upper arms.

Her back is against the garden wall now, his knee between her legs, her dress falling flower-like away from her thighs.

"I should take you home," Klaus says, thickly, without releasing his hold.

Bonnie, dazed and helpless, can only shake her head, can only pull him down for another ardent kiss. "I don't want to go home," she pleads. Her voice is a cloud. Klaus hunts her neck, devours the skin there. Her breath is shivering. His fangs sink, she moans, the clouds break and growl with thunder.

He drinks and she turns to rain, legs wrapped around his waist, a sky wet and soft and pleading for release.

Klaus withdraws his fangs so suddenly Bonnie cries out. He has taken just enough that she is floating on the edge of lightness. Her hand tugs at his belt buckle, ineffective and hungry. He helps her, and she almost expects a teasing grin, but his mouth has other plans, showering the tops of her breasts with kisses and bites. Oh, she will be a canvas of his touch by morning.

There is a moment, after his hand has made swift work of her underwear but before he has buried himself inside her, when they both pant into a heated kiss, open-mouthed and shuddering. And Bonnie thinks, is this what the sky feels every time the rain returns. How lovely, how torturous.

And then, then Klaus is inside her and she is spilling and scattering. Raindrops splash hard and urgent into the earth and the air is slippery and grunting and somehow sweet, sweet like lavender.

Bonnie tilts her neck. Tastes the rain on her tongue.


	4. Chapter 4

Lying down was a mistake.

Not because the bed wasn't comfortable - it was beyond comfortable, it was opulent, as was almost everything supplied to her as Klaus' witch - but because she was now horizontal, her body cupped in the lush mattress and her head cradled in cloud-like pillows, well, getting up was seeming less and less like a desirable option.

And without getting up, Bonnie had no way of reaching the few things she needed to prevent her uterus from continuing to happily, voraciously, eat her from the inside out: Advil (lots of it), her heating pad (specially scented with lavender and chamomile) and the Grimoire containing a handy pain-reducing spell she'd employed once before.

The witch tried to raise her upper body, only to collapse as soon as a fresh wave of cramps tore through her, making her grit her teeth trying to contain a whimper that barely escaped.

Bonnie waited for the worst to pass and raised her phone with a weak hand. "Help" was all she managed to type, hitting _Send_ before the cramps started again.

Curling up into a ball, she made herself think of something, anything, other than the hell that was her reproductive system at the moment. The French Quarter by night, its smells and music and palpable magic. She thought of the flourishing little herb garden she was planting aided by the richness of Louisiana soil. Everything grew here, jasmine and hibiscus, houseleek and St. John the Conqueror Root, beauty and magic side by side. Maybe she could convince Klaus to invest in a little greenhouse -

-the door swung open and the Original Hybrid himself was at her side. Her eyes fluttered open to meet his heavy, concerned gaze. He was searching her face and neck for any signs of injury, and it took Bonnie a second to realize the reason for his worry.

"I just needed a few things from my medicine cabinet," she said, sheepishly.

Realization dawned on his face, warm hybrid hands sweeping gently down her waist. "Six months at my residence and you refuse to use the bell for the servants," he tsked, though not without a faint smile.

Bonnie curled up into an even smaller ball, "I just…feel bad asking people to be at my beck and call."

He raised an eyebrow.

"…maybe if I had a bell just to call you," Bonnie suggested with mock innocence.

"Ah, so you have no qualms about exploiting _my_ labor?"

"None," she declared, biting back a grin before her face scrunched in pain again.

"Poor little witch," Klaus clucked, rubbing a thumb over her abdomen. "Very well, what do you need?"

He started to get up only for Bonnie to grip his arm. "Wait," she managed through a spasm of agony, taking his hands and placing them directly over her throbbing lower belly. His wolf-warmth stole into her skin, gently soothing the pain.

"Ah, so now I am a mere heating implement," he teased, though he kept his hands where she wanted them.

"No. You're a _great_ heating implement."

Her grateful look belied the lightness of her words.

"I have a better idea, love."

Sliding into bed next to her, Klaus gently turned her around, pulling her flush against his warm, warm body as though it was the most natural thing in the world. They fit together remarkably well, like they'd done this a thousand times before. His fingers slowly eased under her shirt, resting on her bare skin. A deep, luxurious sigh escaped the witch. Agony and weariness had worn away her usual shyness, and so she curled into his heat and strong arms, her body starting to soften into sleepiness.

"You smell like paint," she mumbled, eyes drifting close.

"I was painting," his deep voice was muffled by her hair.

"Oh, I didn't mean to-,"

"Hush. You feel infinitely nicer in my hands than a paintbrush at the moment."

And suddenly, Bonnie was warm all over for an entirely different reason.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Bonus points to anyone who can identify the reference to the 1992 film "Bram Stoker's Dracula" in here. Shoutout to notthebees for inspiring me to rewatch!_

* * *

Bonnie creeps past the foyer of the Mikaelson mansion, the place where she'd been staying for the past two months, hoping to reach her bedroom unseen. There she could cast a simple silencing spell, cry her eyes out, and no one would be the wiser.

She might have guessed that they wouldn't understand, would respond with shock and even disapproval.

She had braced herself for all these reactions and more when she'd decided to finally tell her friends that she was Klaus' witch now.

What she hadn't prepared for, what had pierced through her carefully assembled composure like arrows, were the questions.

Stefan and Damon wanted to know what kind of dungeon Klaus was keeping her in. (She had her own spacious suite with an attached reading room, and the bathtub was so expansive she could almost swim in it).

Caroline inquired whether Klaus was making her kill people for him on a daily basis (A ridiculous notion. Klaus did not need anyone's help to take off a head or several dozen when the mood struck him, and so far her stint as his witch had entailed long hours in his impressive library reading about the history of witchcraft while drinking tea. The most rigorous task he'd asked her to perform was a boundary spell for the mansion, and afterwards he'd insisted on providing a Parisian banquet for her).

Elena asked how Bonnie could stand to be around someone so evil ( how could she explain to them those quiet rainy evenings, her flipping through a journal or Grimoire or a novel, Klaus absorbed in painting, and the way he somehow knew just when she needed a blanket or more hot water for her tea. Or the time she had fallen asleep on the settee in his studio and woke up to find herself carefully tucked in bed. And maybe the real evil was that she had never felt safer than sleeping under the same roof as the monster who'd terrorized their town. Maybe. But evil was a slippery idea, as Elena herself should well know, although Bonnie refrained from reminding her.)

And _then_ , Jeremy, the boy she had taken a risk on, whose life she had saved, the boy she once thought would never hurt her, the boy who had turned from her into his ghostly ex-lover's arms, had cornered her on her way out to ask if she was sleeping with Klaus. (It was the last straw, the one that brought tears rushing to her eyes. Because for all that she had lain her life out for them countless times, channeled more power than was humanly possible for their protection, they just saw her as a silly girl running to the first man who showered her with attention. Nevermind that Klaus had never even demanded such a thing, that although he loved to invade her personal space and make her feel tiny he had yet to try and seduce her, that he had once ripped a vampire's head from his shoulders for daring to insinuate about Bonnie the things that came so easily from Jeremy's lips. (And she had liked it, the blood stain on the priceless carpet and Klaus' dark gaze, knowing it was for her.)

All of this and more swirls around the witch's head as she tries to hurry up the grand staircase -

\- only to bump into the Original Hybrid himself.

She had told him why she was meeting with her friends. He had held his tongue, although she knew him well enough now to read between the silence.

Bonnie tries to breeze past him but of course, he will have none of that. An arm bars her way, his other hand grasps her chin, makes her meet his gaze.

"They - they just need time," she says in as normal a voice as she can muster. Apparently it is not enough, for Klaus' eyes narrow and his mouth purses in disapproval. She knows that look too. It signals danger, and Bonnie Bennett's first reaction is to defend.

"It's fine, I'm fine….really-,"

"You are not fine," he says in that blunt way of his, "a few more seconds and you will dissolve into tears."

Bonnie bites her lip so hard she almost tastes blood, and still she cannot prevent the teardrop that spills from between her lashes. (She is used to breaking in silence and solitude, not in the middle of the afternoon in front of a man who shouldn't and yet somehow seems to care more about her distress than her friends.) Klaus touches the heel of his hand to her cheek, and her tears trickle down into his palm. He stares at them like they might be jewels.

"I - I want to go upstairs. Please."

For a moment she thinks he might refuse. (Didn't he know what a thin thread she was hanging by? That if he touched her cheek again she really would dissolve into tears, and maybe lay her face on his chest, let him hold her and then - )

But Klaus obliges, and she is free to scurry into her room. Except something makes her pause, her hand curling into the bannister.

"You don't have to worry about me. I can handle them, I always have. Eventually they'll…they'll come around. They're my problem."

"A fact I was willing to concede, until they allowed you to return here where I would see you in such a state," there's a flash of fang in his smile.

"Klaus, don't-,"

"Kill them? Maim them horribly?" he rolls his eyes in amusement, "hang them up by their ankles in my torture chamber?"

"Y-you have a torture chamber?" she stutters.

The hybrid presses a finger to his own lips, "I have said too much already."

" _Klaus…_ ,"

He hops up on the step next to her, towering above her, and suddenly he seems to fill her whole world. He tucks a stray curl behind her ear, "I only mean to pay them a visit, and remind them that the sole reason I tolerate their pitiful existence on the same plane as mine is because of you." His eyes flash wolf-gold for the tiniest moment, "But should they cost you tears again, I'm afraid even you, Bonnie, could not protect them from their fate."

He presses a swift kiss to her temple, and is gone in an eyeblink.

Bonnie lifts a hand to her own face, looking for tears that have already vanished.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N** : This was partially inspired by a scene in irishcookie's sizzling klonnie fic "there are consequences to doing the right thing". Shoutout to her for being one of the most quality writers in the Bonnie fandom!_

* * *

Klaus might strut around as the Original Hybrid, but Bonnie was secretly convinced he was mostly cat. He certainly moved like one: so light footed she never heard him coming. And he behaved like one too: demanding of her time and attention, prone to falling asleep upon her and thus trapping her on beds and couches, and absolutely averse to sharing.

Case in point: she was supposed to be finishing a curative potion for Elena and the Salvatores because Damon had got himself hexed with a face full of warts by an irate witch. After spasms of wheezing laughter, Bonnie had agreed to help. Klaus on the other hand had just returned from a trip to New Orleans and saw no reason why she should spend any part of her evening doing anything that did not involve him, her and his lavish king-size bed.

And so here she was, mixing herbs at the table, trying to fend off his overtures.

"This will only take a second-,"

"Don't let me stop you, love." This, murmured into her neck while his hands glided along her hips.

Bonnie squirmed, which of course Klaus took as a cue to pull her more firmly between his legs so she could feel - , " _Klaus._ "

"Hmm?" and now his lips were trailing kisses along her neck and ear, the graze of teeth promising fangs later. Bonnie shivered.

"You're not helping," she mumbled, fighting the urge to let her eyes drift close. He smelled delicious, like aftershave and mint soap, and the feeling was apparently mutual as he was now rubbing his face into her throat and under her hair, taking deep, hungry breaths all the while. His stubble made her skin tingle.

Scenting. He was scenting her.

She would be soaked in his smell later, this Bonnie knew beyond a doubt. And he would have that satisfied smirk on his face, knowing that she was marked. ("You smell like me too you know", she had pointed out once. "Let's enhance that, shall we?" he'd grinned before diving between her legs and making her come apart in his mouth and on his face).

"Helping Damon Salvatore?" Klaus chuckled, "No I imagine not."

"I promised Elena, it's just a simple potion-,"

"Is his condition fatal?" the hybrid murmured, distracting her with the rumble of his deep voice on her skin while a hand unbuttoned her jeans and slipped inside.

"No, but- ah-," her voice floundered at the touch of his fingers against the most intimate part of her, "Klaus-," she breathed, somewhere between a protest and a plea.

"Would you leave me unattended, in such a state?" he purred, grinding his hips into he so she could feel his meaning. She gasped.

"When I might go mad without repletion," he continued in a tone like warm silk. Almost involuntarily, Bonnie pushed her rear against his hardness, and was rewarded with a growl. "Imagine what might happen if I do not feed soon-," his fingers pushed aside the cotton of her panties and pressed her sensitive folds, "- to anyone who crosses my path." His mouth suckled her earlobe while his touch continued to stoke her fire slowly but surely. "Innocent lives are in your hands, love," he pushed a finger inside her. Bonnie bit her lip, the pestle clattering out of her grip, the herbs abandoned on the table. He knew her too well, knew that she would never risk a ravenous moody hybrid wandering around Mystic Falls, not when the solution was literally herself. But as he stroked her from the inside until she was wet and slippery and almost panting for him, Bonnie conceded that this was a far more agreeable way to play hero.

It was hours later when the faint buzzing of her phone stirred her awake. A phone she could've reached were it not for the warm, powerful hybrid arms locked around her waist, holding her firmly and almost greedily against his torso. Klaus' eyes were closed, and his chest rose and fell in rhythmic contentment. Her phone continued buzzing. Bonnie raised her head, trying to reach for the end table, but his arms tightened around her, and a leg draped over hers. She would've protested, but his nose was nuzzling the nape of her neck. _Definitely a cat,_ she decided.

Bonnie ignored her phone. _I guess they can wait_ , the witch conceded, sinking into her hybrid with a hum of satisfaction, feeling rather cat-like herself.


	7. Chapter 7

_Afterglow_ , part III

* * *

She supposes it's a cliche, but she feels like a flower.

Bonnie had always imagined flowers as delicate and pure (certainly she is easily marked by her hybrid's amorous touches, and he has complained often enough about her pristine moral compass) but now, neither of these qualities are foremost in her mind as she trails dreamily past the rows of blossoms at the small shop.

Instead, she is stunned by their erotic quality.

The eager stamens thrusting out of wantonly red anthuriums, the moisture trembling on lush roses, lily-petals spread boldly open like thighs. Pollen clings to her fingers, a silken promise. She buries her nose in a peony and inhales the soapy-sweet perfume, smiling luxuriantly, imagining a nook in the woods and flowers springing varied and beautiful out of the earth with a flick of her hand.

"Want me to make you a mixed bouquet honey?" the florist, an elderly woman with a kind, moon-shaped face, gives the young witch an indulgent look. Bonnie imagines the picture she must make: an innocent girl in a yellow dress, enchanted by flowers, dreaming of kisses on her virgin pillow.

(And well, to be fair, she was a virgin until a few days ago)

If only this grandmotherly soul knew of the bite marks on her inner thighs and between her breasts (marks Bonnie sometimes found herself stroking idly, imagining Klaus' fangs there again, and again and again…). Or how the sight of hybrid eyes - marigold, blackening - that left most people in paroxysms of fear, made her wet.

"Sure," Bonnie says lightly, and points out some of her favorites. Klaus will no doubt roll his eyes when she walks out with two armfuls. Her skin tickles with the memory of lavender and how he had trailed the small blossoms along her lips and throat and stomach. _Craving._ Was the word that kept rising to her mind, the only word that fit.

"He's a very lucky man. Whoever is making your face glow like that," the florist, Deborah, notes gently. Bonnie flushes, unable to restrain her dawning grin. She feels like those lilies, stretched open in the light.

"I'll tell him you said that," Bonnie replies, taking her bouquets. She will do no such thing of course. Klaus' ego was monumental enough, enhanced in no small part by the sounds and writhing movements she can't seem to help but make in his bed (if not for his hybrid healing she is certain his back would be a canvas of her grasping nails).

Of course, as soon as she spots him, leaning on the hood of his car, watching her in that way she can only describe as wolf-like, she is beaming bright as the flowers in her arms, and clearly she doesn't need to _tell_ him how he makes her feel because she is marked with those feelings as plain as day.

And yet, when he pulls over on a dirt road and drags her into his lap, hands spreading her thighs apart, mouth lavishing her neck and breasts with a kind of desperate hunger, she realizes maybe Klaus does need telling, needs to know that he - and only he - can make her open like a hyacinth in the rain.

It's a terrible cliche but she feels like a flower, and she wants him to feel how she is unfurling at his touch, she wants to give him this - all the moans vibrating in her throat, all the ways her tongue shapes his name into a plea.

She should worry about making too much noise and bringing the highway patrol down on them, but Klaus has no such compunctions as he takes her nipples into his mouth, as he strokes her through her panties until she is dripping for him. His other hand undoes his belt and Bonnie shocks them both by grasping him and guiding him hungrily between her thighs.

 _Craving_. The only word that fits.

She rocks up and down on his lap, his mouth is everywhere, there will be stains on her yellow dress telling and sticky as pollen.

His knee braces against the wheel for leverage, and now each thrust makes her gasp and shake. Her hand smudges steamy glass, the air thickens with the sweetness of the fresh flowers piled in the backseat and the salty sweat on their skin. The car is a hothouse, and they are bursting into fullness.

Klaus drags his tongue along her clavicle and her neck, like she is nectar that he won't waste a single drop of.

 _Craving_ , she thinks again. Another word for flowers. The only word that fits.


	8. Chapter 8

If someone had told her two years ago that Klaus Mikaelson enjoyed having his hair played with, Bonnie would've laughed long and loud in their face. If they had then informed her that she would one day prove particularly skilled at stroking aforementioned hybrid's hair, her laughter would have intensified to a hysterical pitch. And yet here she was, on his couch, in his house - mansion, really - being warmed by a companionable fire, playing in Klaus Mikaleson's hair and scrolling her phone while the man himself _napped_.

(The first time she had done this, touched his hair, he had drowsily accused her of casting a spell)

Bonnie glanced down at the (so rarely) reposeful face of her hybrid - the slightly parted lips, the lids pulled smoothly over deep-set eyes - and marvelled that this is the same Klaus Mikaelson whose name inspired terror in all corners of the supernatural world. (It's not that Bonnie was blind to the reality of who he was - how could she be, when he had killed and maimed and destroyed to protect her countless times and would, despite her best efforts to safeguard herself and any innocent bystanders, do so again at the slightest whiff of any danger threatening her - but rather the rest of the world only glimpsed a corner of the full painting she was privy to everyday.)

She scraped her fingernails lightly along his scalp, rewarded by a deep hum of approval. Klaus rubbed his cheek into her jean covered thigh and Bonnie savored the feel of his locks between her fingers. Not only did Klaus enjoy her hands in his hair, she had discovered that he took _meticulous_ care of his curls. She would never forget the first time she used his shower and found row upon row of expensive shampoos lining the walls, locked behind frosted glass (to keep his siblings, especially Rebekah, at bay, he'd explained). Not coincidentally, Klaus also took the longest showers out of any person she knew (admittedly, they took even longer lately because she was usually in there with him and well, she was ashamed of how quickly her prudent concerns about water usage and the environment flew out the window when Klaus lifted her against the shower wall and hoisted her legs around his waist…)

Her fingers moved to the back of his head, pulling tenderly at the hair there. Bonnie contemplated telling him how adorable she found that those particular locks curl _up_ , but thought better of it. Original Hybrids had self-images to maintain after all.

Her thoughts shifted to the last time her fingers were tangled in the nape of his neck, when his mouth was buried between her thighs and his hair was her only anchor as she ground herself shamelessly into his face. (And if she weren't limp as a noodle afterwards Bonnie would've been embarrassed about the sopping wet stain on his sheets and the way Klaus grinned, wiping his jaw and saying he hadn't been this soaked since the French Riviera).

She gave his curls a gentle tug at the memory, and a grin curved the corner of his mouth. And while Klaus would usually follow that grin with a bold and teasing comment sure to make her either blush, melt or threaten to set his sleeve on fire, she knew he won't risk the loss of her fingers combing through his hair.

At the sound of her ringtone his deep contented breaths became almost a growl.

Elena's voice was full of entreaty, asking for a locator spell for one of Stefan's friends. Bonnie considered it for a moment. She wasn't immune, even after everything, to the innate urge to help her friends. Magic was a grave responsibility, and as the only witch in town her burden was heavier than most.

( _"Witch,"_ Klaus had murmured the first time she ran her fingers through his hair, his voice thick with wonder and desire. She had never known the word 'witch' could sound like that.)

Bonnie kept her tone soft, yet firm. "I can't tonight, 'Lena. Sorry."

Klaus' eyes opened slowly, fixing her with a look that was part smug, part pleased. Putting her phone away, Bonnie used her grasp to tilt his head slightly and capture his lips in a kiss.

She wished she could tell her friends, how it felt to wield a different kind of magic in her hands.


	9. Chapter 9

_Afterglow, part IV_

* * *

There is a storm beating on the windows and her sleep is restless. She can feel each time the lightning forces the skies apart. She's hot and cold and hot again. Magic sparks and simmers under her skin, hungry, impatient. Bonnie tosses and turns, then finally throws off the covers. Padding to the french doors, she turns the lock and lets rain and wind and the blue glow of lightning stream over her. Her nightgown is cool against feverish skin.

She thinks she could drink the storm and still be thirsty. The nights - _and_ mornings, _and_ afternoons, _and_ evenings, if she is honest - she has spent in Klaus' bed have whetted her powers. Her magic feels swollen, like a bayou in the rain, lapping at her flesh, demanding more.

Apparently, Grams hadn't told her quite everything about being a witch.

Bonnie trails out of his room, past the silent paintings in the hallway, down the long winding stairs. Raindrops pearl her hair, scatter behind her as she walks.

She finds Klaus by the fire, bare-chested, a book in his lap. The way his long fingers turn the pages makes her shiver.

"You…you weren't in bed," she says, quietly.

"So you could get some sleep, love."

Bonnie walks to stand in front of him. The magic or the storm or something else entirely has made her bold. She stands between his legs, reaches down and takes the book from his hand.

"I'm awake now."

It's the same one she had been reading earlier, opened to her bookmarked page: _The Eve of St Agnes_

Words flicker in and out of the shadows as she traces the poetry. Klaus' hands take hold of her thighs, run up and down the soft skin. He kisses the curve of her hip through the flimsy cotton nightgown. She is only a sliver short of naked.

Bonnie knows this poem. She knows why Madeline could get no sleep. For every word she reads Klaus presses his mouth across her waist and lower belly. He is tentative still, his touches light as a dream.

It isn't enough.

Like Madeline, she wants to grasp the dream and make it flesh in her hands. Klaus looks up when she lets the book thud to the floor. Bonnie sweeps her rain-pearled hair over her shoulder, lets the firelight caress her neck. In the gathering dark of his eyes she pushes the cotton straps down her arms and her nightgown falls to her ankles like a soft breath.

The hunger in his face makes her giddy.

(No, Grams certainly hadn't told her about _this_ kind of power).

She rests her hands on his shoulders and climbs into his lap. Her thighs straddle him, her breasts the perfect temptation for his mouth. Klaus leans back in the chair, fingertips skimming her skin. His gaze is both cloudy and focused. She has seen that look before, in the art studio when his hands are coated in paint. She gasps when he touches her nipples, already taut for him. " _While he from forth the closet brought a heap/ Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd/ And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon._..," he finishes with a slow, lazy smile.

Bonnie can't remember the string of words quite like he can, but she remembers what Madeline wanted, how she consumed the feast and Porphyro too. So she lifts Klaus' hand to her mouth, kissing each fingertip as if thanking them early for the pleasure they will soon bring, then sucks each digit into her mouth like sweets. Slow, savoring, she takes her time with each finger. He makes a sound like a stifled growl. And some of the words came back to her now.

 _Into her dream he melted, as the rose_

 _Blendeth its odor with the violet, -_

She takes the hand made slick from her tongue and puts it slowly between her legs. There is no trace of blue left in Klaus' eyes. They gleam liquorice-black, just for her.

Bonnie rides his hand, up and down, back and forth, until his wrist and palm are syrupy with her.

There is a storm gasping at the windows. She arches her throat, all the powers of nature made her voyeur.

* * *

 _A/N: the poem quoted here is "The Eve of St Agnes" by John Keats which is about the lovers Madeline and Porphyro, The poem's title refers to beliefs that if a young girl performs certain rites on the eve of the Feast of Saint Agnes she will be granted visions of her future husband/lover._


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: I love all of these drabbles, but this one has a special place in my heart._

* * *

Bonnie vows - ineffectually, she knows this - that this is the last time she will let Caroline talk her into helping with her pet projects.

She has only been at the lemonade stand for an hour and she has already fended off three bees, a wasp, and two thirteen-year-old boys on skateboards who weren't interested in the lemonade so much as they were trying to look up her dress.

Still, she is prepared to handle all of that and more rather than the tall Original Hybrid sauntering down the sidewalk towards her with _that_ grin on his face.

Her first instinct is to flee. Not for the usual reasons people might flee Klaus Mikaelson's presence, which is threat of decapitation or torture, but because he has stated in no uncertain terms his desire to _court_ her. (And every time they cross paths, Bonnie is less and and less afraid of _him_ than she is of her own unruly longings).

But she is trapped. To stay is to face Klaus, with his knowing looks and deep, smooth voice that definitely _did not_ affect her in any way. To leave is to risk Caroline's wrath. (Perhaps what she really needs is fewer domineering blondes in her life.)

So she crosses her arms defensively, deciding to nip the situation in the bud. "Before you ask, no I haven't considered your offer, and no, I definitely can't skip school for a week to go to Paris."

"Well that is a pity, Paris is beautiful in September," he says casually, looking over her little table with amusement, "although, I am pleased to hear I am occupying your thoughts."

She bites her lip, flushes even hotter beneath the summer sun. She is always revealing more than she intends to around Klaus. (He has been in her thoughts more than she cares to admit, and once or twice in dreams that woke her sweaty and wet between her thighs. No, he definitely doesn't need to know about _those_.)

Refusing to be compromised, Bonnie reaches instead for the armor of casual hauteur that she had learned from a lifetime among Southern femininity. "Can I pour you some lemonade, Klaus? You're looking a little thirsty."

"How… perceptive of you," he replies without missing a beat, and his eyes trail over her properly for the first time. Bonnie fidgets under his scrutiny. It doesn't help that the dress in question is new, and different, somewhat bolder than her usual style (another thing Caroline had talked her into). It's white with little red cherries and a Marilyn Monroe-style halter knotted behind her neck (too tightly, she has to keep tugging it for relief) and scooping (scandalously, Bonnie thinks) over her breasts.

"Stop it."

"Stop what, sweetheart?"

She fidgets, pulling at the knot of her dress, "Staring at me like- like _that_."

Klaus raises an eyebrow teasingly, "Ah, but it was you who brought up my appetites. And you are correct," his gaze drifts to her neck, "I am quite... _parched_."

Perhaps it's the unrelenting sun, but Bonnie feels light-headed. The most dangerous vampire in the world just confessed to wanting her blood, to wanting her. She should run. She should set him on fire and go blanket her house with vervaine. She absolutely _should not_ be flattered, should not want to angle her arm just so as she pours the lemonade so he can enjoy the curve of her waist and hip.

"A dollar fifty for a glass," she says lightly, reaching for a plastic cup and straw. In an eyeblink, he is behind her, his fingers pulling loose the knot of her bodice.

He runs a thumb over the sore spot on her neck, and she catches her breath. She should rebuff him as sternly as she did those boys, with an aneurysm if necessary. But she is frozen, lemonade pitcher poised over the cup, thinking if she feels his breath on her skin she might do something really, really stupid like spill the drink, or turn around and -

-Klaus carefully finishes tying the straps so the knot rests firmly but softly on her skin.

Bonnie swallows the sudden dryness in her throat. Surely he can hear her heart going like a rabbit's.

"Better?" he murmurs.

(And this is what taunts her when she is trying to bury herself in books and Grimoires and responsibilities, when she tries to remind herself that she is reliable, no-nonsense Bonnie Bennett: that Klaus sees the things she tucks away so carefully, that there is nothing she can conceal from him.)

"…yes."

He is back to his former position just as smoothly, putting a twenty-dollar bill on the table. "Keep the change, love."

Bonnie waits until he and his sidelong smile have turned the corner before adding extra ice cubes to her glass.


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Once again inspired by the film "Bram Stoker's Dracula"_

* * *

The house is quiet, the other hybrids having been dispatched to fetch what their master requires.

Bonnie knows it is a hopeless quest, they will find no other witch for many, many miles, and any they do encounter would, she knows, sooner slit their own throat than lend their blood to cure Klaus Mikaelson.

She pads quietly up the stairs and down the long, exquisitely decorated hallway, to his room. (She knows where it is, though she has only been inside it but once, to perform a locator spell. At the time, seeing the inside of his private space caused only mild discomfort. She did not know Klaus the way she does know, they have not shared the many moments that now simmer between them whenever her eyes meet his across a room.)

She is his witch and nothing more, she tells herself as her hand hovers over the doorknob. This is why she's here, to help when she is needed.

(And yet, he has sent out a pack of hybrids to bring him another witch when he has one under his own roof.)

There is a fire blazing in the hearth, shadows gold and black expand and shrink all over the room. Bonnie navigates carefully between antique chairs to the massive four poster bed where a prone figure awaits. He does not stir, his breathing is shallow, and she can see even from afar the glisten of fever sweat on his bare chest. The Hunters' poison works swiftly, and panic rises in her throat. He should've heard her footsteps before she even got to his door, should've barred her from entry.

Bonnie rushes to his bedside, afraid he might already be comatose.

"Klaus…"

She has barely climbed into the bed, her weight hardly sunk into the mattress, when two hands encircle her wrists faster than she can see, and she is on her back, pinned by his weight.

"You were told to _leave_ ," he growls, his voice drained of its usual sardonic tones. He is white as marble, black veins radiating from his eyes which are pure, distilled amber. Both his vampire and his wolf are trying to fight the poison inside him, and whatever sliver is left of the man - the one she thinks she's glimpsed sometimes, in the studio while evening is falling, at night with her arm tucked into his regaling her with some story of the landmark they just walked by - is gone.

"I'm not leaving when you need my help," she bites out. His grip is painful on her wrists, just a simple movement and he could snap them like matchsticks.

He swears in a language she does not know, and those wild-gold eyes rest on her neck.

"You- you just need a little," she whispers, "- take it, Klaus."

His upper lip curls over fanged teeth, nostrils flaring, "What I _need_ \- and what I would _take_ -," abruptly he releases her, pulling away from her body.

She sits up slowly, trembling from adrenaline and the desperate fear that she won't be able to help, to protect him from harm the way he had her countless times. Even now, at his weakest, he is refusing to let her endanger herself. Each moment he hesitates, he risks letting the poison win completely, risks sliding into a magical coma the cure for which no one had discovered yet.

"- leave, Bonnie. _Now_."

Fury and helplessness seize her, and she flings herself at him, beating small ineffectual fists at his torso, her words thick with tears.

"You can't," she pleads angrily, "you can't do this. You selfish jerk - you can't _leave_ me to _protect_ me. I'll hate you if you do, do you hear me? I'll hate - ," her voice cracks, she sags against his chest, mumbling through her sobs, "I'll hate you-,"

His large hand cups her face, shakily lifting her gaze to his. His face is full of astonishment, wonder, and something else, something that makes her heart beat faster. He has always urged her to be selfish, and after a lifetime of sacrifice Bonnie seizes on this one thing, decides she wants it beyond reason or justification: to see that look on his face, over and over, morning, afternoon and evening, by sunlight and moonlight, just for her.

"Bonnie -," his voice is a rough caress on her name. Whatever words planned to come after, they fade as she slips off her cardigan, as she nervously pushes down the strap of her dress and angles her neck. He groans, hands settling on her hips in a bruising grip. "- all those lessons in self-preservation," he says, drawing her to him, frustration cording his neck, " - I told you, I wouldn't ask of you what _they_ ask."

They, meaning her friends. People for whom his contempt is unveiled and ever-strong.

"Then let me do this, because I _want_ to."

Bonnie lifts a shaky hand to the back of his head, weaves her fingers through his hair, urging him down to her throat. "Klaus, please -," she says softly, and her voice has lost its fire, swelling only with need, the need to make him better, to take the poison away.

(And somewhere deep down she knows, he won't deny her anything, not really)

She sighs when his mouth touches her skin. To her surprise, he kisses down the curve of her neck, nuzzling her hair, savoring.

"Fire," he murmurs, "if I don't stop, burn me until I do. Without mercy."

Bonnie nods and braces herself for the pain, but she is still unprepared, and a strangled cry escapes her when his fangs sink. Her body jerks, and he holds her to him like a doll. Her fingers splay wide, clinging to his arms and shoulders. The bite burns and her blood flows into his mouth, her heart is racing, each vein pulsing wildly. Klaus' hold is like iron, and yet somehow still careful, cradling her slender back as though she is precious.

And suddenly she is lying down, underneath him, and his mouth is still buried in her neck. Bonnie can feel the warmth returning to his skin as the poison is destroyed. She wraps her arms around him, light-headed and hovering somewhere between agony and ecstasy.

Then just like that, his fangs are gone, and her treacherous skin mourns the lost contact. Bonnie tries to raise her head, but the room is spinning. Her limbs feel like lead weights. She moans a little, trying to form words. Something warm is pressed to her lips, liquid dribbling over her tongue and throat. Klaus' blood. She drinks slowly, stroking his elbow with a weak hand.

"Just a bit more, sweetheart."

Bonnie complies. A comfortable darkness blankets her. When she awakes, the fire has burned low, and Klaus is resting on his elbow, watching her.

"Hi -," she manages.

He says nothing, choosing instead to trail his fingers over her face, gently tilting her chin to inspect her neck. She feels suddenly shy, and tries to squirm away from his scrutiny. A fruitless effort of course, he holds her still with a single hand.

"I'm fine," she protests.

"I shall be the judge of that," he grazes her pulse, skims her shoulder and clavicle.

There is a sharp, insistent knock on the door. Elijah is on the other side, citing some urgent information. From the stormy look on Klaus' face, Bonnie is certain that anyone less than his older brother would have been dead on their feet before they'd knocked twice.

She tries to look around for her cardigan so she can accompany him downstairs, but Klaus has other ideas. He pushes her firmly into the bed, pulling the blanket over her. His expression softens at her confusion. "I will return. Stay and _rest_."

And she curls meekly into the pillows, hiding her smile, knowing from the look on his face he won't be gainsaid twice in one evening.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Because no one will disabuse me of the headcanon that Klaus Mikaelson is a good dancer. (Musical inspirations for this drabble include **Work** by Rihanna and **Esta Noche** by Azealia Banks)_

* * *

He finds her as he does every night, even though she is thick in the middle of dancing, bumping, grinding bodies. Anyone else and she would've burned the hands that settle on her hips, that pull her back against him. **  
**

"You're late," Bonnie huffs, though she leans into his touch.

"Did you miss me then?" Klaus murmurs, hands sliding slowly to her waist. His touch is full of easy confidence, like he has known her body intimately many times over. Bonnie _only_ allows him this here, under these broken string lights, on this cracked concrete floor sticky with liquor and sweat, where the best dancehall music this side of the Quarter turns everybody - and every _body -_ out.

She begins to sway against him, ignoring his question to ask one of her own, "Trouble with the werewolves again?"

He follows her rhythm easily (Bonnie had been shocked, the first time they bumped into each other here, at how good a dancer he was. Nothing flashy or overly acrobatic, just an indolent ease in his own body that synced smoothly with whatever beat was playing).

"Nothing I can't handle, love," he assures, angling and undulating his hips into her while holding her in place, as if to prove his point.

Bonnie slips fish-like out of his grasp, treating him to the view of her swaying curves so well caressed by her blue linen dress. She feels daring here in a way she doesn't anywhere else, and she's discovered a delicious penchant for taunting him.

He closes the distance between them, spinning her around to face him. His hold is just a little bit rougher, a little less controlled. She smiles coyly though her head swims with power. (It's a dangerous kind of power, like a swirling riptide that could pull you under, steal your breath)

"You know, you could solve most of your problems if you just made peace with the witches."

She turns gracefully in his arms, lets him press her nearly-bare back to his chest. He is all hard muscle and languid strength, and her movements respond to his almost involuntarily.

"Ah, but there is only witch with whom I seek an alliance," Klaus slides a hand over her thigh, fingers grasping the soft linen of her dress, pulling up and up-

"An alliance," Bonnie says, a little breathless as his hand trails along her skin, "is that what you call it these days?"

She can feel rather than see his deep, low laugh, "We can call it whatever you like, love."

A dim wall-to-wall mirror faces them - one of three in the small club - and she sees herself there, draped along him like a rippling scarf. His hand rests possessively on her thigh, stroking, promising more than his words ever could, just inches from her panties, and for a second Bonnie almost wants him to do it, touch her and feel her right there while a dozen people dance around them and the mirror stands as their only witness.

"Whatever I like?" she teases, lifting the sweaty mass of her curls off her nape and glancing at him over her shoulder, moving her hips into him all the while.

"It matters not, so long it involves _me_ taking _you_ home," he replies, and there is only a trace of humor in his voice, the rest is a dark softness, like a tide sucking at her ankles.

And then, the beat drops again, conversation flagging as her body sways and pulses with his. She closes her eyes, sinks into this rhythm, so easy, so natural.

It's an illusion, she knows this. Outside this dancefloor, they are supposed to be enemies. But here, _here_ -

Klaus' hands tighten on her, his tongue darting out to lick the sweat dampening her neck, and she knows she should tell him to stop, keep the lines clear no matter how the music melts them, keep the tide at bay before everything - both their lives - are overrun.

\- here, her head falls back, his mouth follows the line of her throat, and all Bonnie can think is, _whatever you like_.


	13. Chapter 13

The porch is thick with the sweet rotting decadence of magnolia blossoms the afternoon Klaus strolls up her driveway, splattered in blood and gore, holding a Grimoire that was stolen from her. **  
**

Bonnie pities the coven of warlocks who had waylaid her, forced themselves inside her house and knocked her unconscious before making off with her oldest and most prized book of spells. She had tried to downplay the incident, determined to seek out the coven and demand her Grimoire back. But Klaus had taken one look at her bruised arms and neck and made up his mind.

The warlocks' fate was sealed, he said, the moment they decided to hurt her.

(She is still unused to such absolutism, it takes her breath away each time).

As Klaus climbs her porch steps and looms in her threshold, she feels fever-weak, like when you stay out in the sun too long without water and your senses start to get fuzzy. She should be afraid of the crimson splatters on his clothes and hands. No witch worth her salt should feel anything but revulsion at such a sight.

(But it's different, because this time the blood is for _her_ sake, his violence has been in _her_ name. Why did no one ever tell her, it's different when it's for _you_.)

Bonnie asks him inside, and he slides the Grimoire across the table at her, waiting for her reaction.

She doesn't ask him what he's done - the evidence is soaked into his clothes - nor can she bring herself to thank him. Thanking would mean approval, and she definitely _does not_ approve.

There he stands in her small parlor, all towering hybrid strength and large, bloodied hands, tracking dirt from heavy combat boots across the clean floor, covered in sweat and blood and grass. (No one had told her this either: that some things just don't care about your approval)

"You can- you can wash your hands in the kitchen sink."

She leads, he follows. There is a musky, animal scent to him she's never known before, a wild, wolfish scent that always lingered beneath his usual expensive aftershave. A predator fresh from kill.

(She should be afraid, but that isn't why she's trembling)

Bonnie flips the faucet open, and rushing water fills the heavy silence between them. Distracted, on edge, she skitters, turns to get him some drinking water from the fridge even though she knows it's silly and that water is probably the last thing on his mind right now.

The faucet flows uninterrupted. Klaus is watching her instead, she can feel his gaze travelling lazily up her calves, over the small of her back, along her shoulder-blades and neck. He has killed for her today, she thinks. And her body betrays her, growing warm between her legs.

Bonnie clenches her thighs together but it's far too late. He has caught her scent. He covers the foot of distance between them, hands resting on her waist, nose burying in her hair. When his lips land just below her ear, she can't contain her soft gasp.

"Send me away," he growls.

"Klaus-," she doesn't mean for his name to slip out quite like that, like a sultry plea. He mutters some harsh oath against her neck, his hand hiking up her skirt. The glass slips from her hands, shattering, when he slips his fingers past the hem of her cotton panties.

If possession had a shape and a feeling, it was the way Klaus _grasped_ her, the way he opened her up, slid his fingers inside. (There are some things beyond approval, beyond words.)

This is wrong, she knows, as her head arches onto his shoulder, as he moves his fingers in and out, the heel of his hand rubbing where she is most sensitive, where she most needs.

" _Klaus…_ " his name again, this time caught in her throat.

His hand is relentless. The same hand that has killed for her mere hours ago. And at that thought she melts, _melts_ into his palm.

She should send him away. No witch worth her salt would let a monster defile her with such pleasures in her own kitchen. Anyone could walk in and find them, anyone could-

"I want to _taste_ you," Klaus breathes into her ear, and she is wet all over again, arousal running down her thighs. (Some things don't ask for approval, they just take it).

If only her friends knew how easily besieged she was by his ruthlessness. (For her. All for her)

He spins her around, boots crunching on broken glass as he backs her into the counter, as he nudges her ankles apart and sinks to his knees. Her mouth goes dry. Elsewhere, she is dripping for him like a popsicle in the sun.

Hands gripping granite edge, Bonnie lets her eyes fall close, her lips parting as he runs a nose up her thigh, as he shoves her panties aside.

"Say my name again," he purrs, tongue darting out to lick her, content to tease her now that she is at his mercy.

She obliges, thighs spreading wide in his hands as he takes her in his mouth, becomes the spoil of his victory.

* * *

 _A/N: So, this is all I have for this series so far. I might do a few more if inspiration strikes before the end of the summer. In the meantime, if anyone has a summer-themed prompt or scene they would like to see, drop me a line and I'll see what I can do. Until then, hope you've enjoyed!_


End file.
